


The Companion

by BachandBefore



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Family Member Death, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Money, Original Character(s), Period Peice, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-09-28 17:34:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10141763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BachandBefore/pseuds/BachandBefore
Summary: A man finds strange ways to keep his brother from sending him to an asylum.





	

True, I'd spent most of my time thinking about, and comparing myself to, Faust, from Goethe's work. The many hours I spent inside my own head had me reach the conclusion that if I were but a bit more successful in life, I would be the reflection of this man, this man who was so faithful in his own misery that he was willing to sell his soul to the devil. There was nothing else to be faithful in, I thought, except the constant presence of dissatisfaction; this steadfast companion waved to me from every street corner and shadow, beckoning for my attention from dawn till dusk.  
True, I thought of this several times a day, almost as often as this dissatisfaction beckoned for me, but was that a cause for my own brother to interfere? I wanted no disturbance; I wanted to sit and let my unhappiness spread out around me in molasses-like lakes. I wanted to dip my fingers into the syrup and suck on them, letting my eyes close in the ecstasy of my doom.  
"You're going mad," he told me, "Don't think I haven't noticed! There are people who can help you, you know, if only you'd-"  
I was sucking on my fingers, my tongue tracing each contour of my splintering finger-nails, trying harder for the molasses.  
"Stop that! I want to help you. You are still my brother, mad or not. I can talk to someone for you, get you help, I know a doctor..."  
I removed my hand from my mouth enough to correct him, "I don't need help."  
"You do. You spend hours and hours up in that awful room, reading the same book over and over again-"  
"I don't want help."  
I was more brotherly towards Faust than towards my own flesh-and-blood sibling; or his stare, flooded with pleading; or his hands together with the knuckles white. The only trouble with my Faust fixation was that the story itself became another note in the composition of my grief; my eyes had run over the words so many times that their meaning became dulled down, dimmer and dimmer until someday I would take nothing from it at all.  
"Please," my brother gave vocation to his gaze.  
I was not mad; I knew enough to dread this unseen figure that was the Doctor. A faceless apparition began to loom in my mind. I did not want to see him. As unhappy as I was, I knew now there was something that could make things even worse.  
"No," I was firm, "I need no help. I'll...I'll try. I'll come out more, I'll look for new work."  
"Do you promise?"  
"Yes." It was the right answer; just a word, easy to say.  
"Thank you," he was on his knees before me, in gratitude, "I'll help you, of course, and I'll visit whenever I can. Thank you."  
I sucked on my fingers.

I had been living in a flat in the city, several boulevards away form yet still too close to my brother. He took it upon himself to drop in whenever he pleased to insult me and recommend this mysterious Doctor.  
I found, though, that I could hear him in the lobby, conversing with the drunkard of a doorman, who didn't even bother to be discreet about the bottles in his blazer pockets. It worked out well for me, because in his intoxication he shouted most of what he said. Whenever I heard, I'd put on my shoes and coat and linger near the door with my hat in my hand, looking startled when he walked in, saying I'd just gotten back, what good timing, I might have still been away! We would sit for tea or on infrequent occasion a meal, and I'd tell him about my 'exploits' of the day, waving my hands and speaking with animation, and this trickery pacified him.  
But I tired of pacifying him. I tired of the constant meddling. When he was away I could sit in silence, Goethe's work limp in one hand, the other up near my jaw so I could suck on my fingers.  
My brother looked me down from across the table and held his wineglass elegantly; it was the kind of grace that I never bothered with, instead choosing to clutch the stem in my fist. It was of course my dinner guest who had brought the bottle since I was broke, and on his way up I'd heard a conversation even louder than usual between he and the greedy drunk doorman.  
"You haven't happened to find work yet, have you?"  
"Not yet," I emphasized, "I have been looking, as you know."  
"Good, good. Then, when you can, I think you could move. That doorman is...quite the character." He took a quick sip, his eyes falling to the side. "But perhaps it's best that you haven't gotten a steady job yet, as you won't need to take time off for..."  
He paused and swirled the red liquid in his glass while I eyed it with demented interest. I wondered if there would be more murders in the world if blood was like that wine, sweet-smelling and sparkling, a lovely burgundy. My brother went on, doing a poor job of looking unaffected by the news he was about to deliver: "Our father died yesterday night; I got the telephone call this morning, from our old servant."  
He waited, for some reaction that I realized I was a bit late in giving. "Oh. Dear. Um..." Now what? Some mention of my internal injury at such an event, a comment on a tragedy? I envied my father for having been allowed to exit this world. And he'd been elderly. Our mother had already passed on; he'd achieved the things that humans were supposed to strive for, the money and large estate. There was no more life left for him to live.  
"I've taken it upon myself to arrange the funeral," continued my brother, "So that you don't have to worry about it. I would really like it if in the meantime, you would take my advice to visit the Doctor. You know where he-"  
"Yes, yes," I held out my hand with my face in something resembling a smile. "I will. I've just been busy, trying to find a job. I think things are looking up, though, the book-shop owner seemed impressed by me, but if you really want me to take a break from my search-"  
"I'm sure you can stop for just one day," He smiled, a real smile, not like my grotesque feign. "I'm proud of you. Yes, see the Doctor, it'll be just a brief appointment. I've spoken to him already, I know him well."  
I could not get that idiot out the door soon enough. I had to keep faking laughs and smiles and small talk until at last the hour was right for him to leave, upon which I had to feign my sorrow at his departure and falsely encourage him to come back soon. When at last the door was shut and the light was out I let the four-letter word repeat itself over and over in my brain.  
There had to be some way of escaping this. I couldn't just pretend to have gone out, like I'd done before, if he knew the Doctor well. I paced. Forging a note. Faking a phone call. But no, he'd recognize the handwriting, and the voice.  
Perhaps I could just tell my brother, honestly, that there was no way to help me; I didn't want to get better, and couldn't get better, and I wasn't mad, just miserable. That I delved deep into this unhappiness because it was constant and dependable, good traits in a companion. It was so difficult to go out into the world and try and make a place for oneself, try to accept the superficiality, try to achieve the goals that were wordlessly impressed upon all humans, whether they were really worth attaining or not. My goals, the right ones for me, were to be rid of my brother, and escape to somewhere I could read and suck on my fingers.  
No, my brother would never agree. He'd mentioned time and again that one didn't know what he needed until he went out and had new experiences, and then the true nature of one's purpose would be revealed. I felt, already, that I had experienced enough, which was why I had started to shut myself up in the first place. What could anyone possibly offer me? What did they want to offer me? And in turn there was nothing I wanted to offer them.  
But back to my task. Getting out of the appointment. I paced over and over until the walls blurred around me, so absorbed that I was startled when something clunked into my door from outside.  
"It's not my fault," the doorman was croaking, overly loudly as usual. But a smirk drew itself over my lips. There, of course, was my answer.

The next day passed comfortably, me waiting in my flat with my crumpled Faust copy balled up in my fist, a large bottle of red wine...or, now, rather pinkish wine, snug at my side. My brother had left the bottle last night and I'd filled up the empty space with water, making it look more full than it was. At around one in the afternoon the doorman came staggering up to my door, throwing a fist against it, saying over and over again, "Where is it?"  
I strode over and twisted the knob. "Hello."  
""ey, where is it? You said...you said if I talked to that Doctor for you, you'd give me."  
"Of course, my friend." I held up his payment by its neck, and even through the glassiness his eyes were wrought with longing. "It's all yours." But I held it away a little, out of his worm-like reaching fingers.  
"'ey, 'ey! What's this?"  
"But you have to promise not to reveal my secret, you remember? You can not breathe a word to my brother."  
"Right, right. I won't."  
I handed it over.  
The Doctor didn't know me, of course, not my face or my voice or my mannerisms. I'd sent the Doorman in my place, to pretend to be me, to announce that his title was my name, to ask for the Doctor that my brother had set up. It would not have fallen into place if I had not left my flat for the first time in a month, to sneak down and steal the Doorman's stash down in the lobby. He'd flown into a panic, but I was there to rescue him, with my tantalizing bottle of that life-giving red liquid. For it, the doorman would have done anything, which included pretending to be me.  
I was safe for a little while, now. I did not believe my brother was so stupid as to not figure things out eventually, but now when he called the Doctor, he would get an honest answer that someone with my name had come in to see him. I went to sleep easily that night and dreamed of molasses.

My brother called on the telephone; he couldn't visit, as he was busy with the funeral arrangements. My ploy had worked and he was pleased with me for supposedly having visited the doctor. "You will go back, right?"  
The four-letter word returned. I should have known. "Well, I thought that our session went quite well, actually, and-"  
"Don't try me!" he burst out in startling anger, "The Doctor told me you seemed quite distraught and even drunk! You had better not be turning to alcohol, you can barely pay your rent!"  
"You left the bottle last night, I might have been a tad tipsy when I went in-"  
"Please, I am trying to help you," he pleaded, "The Doctor said if you don’t make more of an effort he might want to keep you as an in-patient. As a brother, and as a friend, because I care about you! You have to go back. You are not going to be cured by one session."  
"Yes, I know. Don't worry about me. You've got enough to do, with our father having died-"  
"Swear to me! That you will return!"  
"I swear." Words, as usual, were easy to toss out.  
"Good. Thank you. I care about you-"  
I hung up. Faust was lying on the floor. I kicked it hard, jumping it up into the air, the pages folding over themselves as they landed. Then I tore open the door of my apartment and thundered down the stairs, to the lobby.  
"Doorman," I said, upon finding him slumped at the desk, a newfound bottle in his grip, "I need you to-"  
"'ey, you're that fellow from last night. Who sent me the fake watery wine."  
"I'm insulted! 'Watery' indeed. It was expensive-"  
"And watery! And fake! I want good stuff, when I go through trouble with you!"  
"Please," I clasped my hands, "I appreciate that it was a great deal of trouble, but I must ask you to do it again. You have to visit-"  
"No."  
"What?"  
"NO! Go away. I'm not gonna lie for you. Not when I don't even-" he paused for a hiccough "-get the good stuff in return."  
I was rooted to my spot, watching him drink, and my head shook slowly side to side. "You bastard."  
"Yep, yep, yep. You're a bastard, lying to your own brother. Watering down the wine. Damn you, you can't lie forever. I oughta tell your brother...I think I will..."  
He was right. I couldn't lie around forever. My brother had halfway won, because he was forcing me out of my apartment; what I needed now was to run. And I did. I ran up the stairs. I ran to grab my coat and my keys and the disheveled heap that was Faust. I ran back down. I ran out the door, outrunning the doorman's shouts. "You can't lie! You can't..."

There was only one place where I could go. My brother wouldn't suspect it, because he was spending a considerable amount of time there himself. The place was my late father's estate, to which I still had the keys. I rushed all the way there, through rain-splashed streets, everything in me protesting to being outside. The air was so piercing, the stars glaring down. But I ran, until I reached the gates of the estate, looming through the iron bars with its gray stone facade blocking out the moon. My new prison.  
I had lost the correct key for the gate and had to climb over it; it would have been easier to climb over the wall itself, but there was no path near it, and I would have left footprints in the garden. As it was I hauled myself to the top of the iron and dropped back down with a click of my shoes on the brickwork, and I darted past the still-running fountain and up to the two front doors. This time my keys worked.  
The building was echoing, empty and blue. I took off my shoes and carried them as to not track mud, and rushed the familiar way up the stairs, through the gilded halls with their austere portraits, all the way up to the one part of the house that had no gloss. The attic was all splintering wood, but for once luck was on my side; it was also filled with artless, accumulated unwanted items, including furniture. With all my effort I shoved a heavy dresser in front of the top door, and an even heavier wardrobe after that, before collapsing onto the floor with my back screaming in protest.  
The walls were so tall around me, the ceiling hovering mockingly, high up where I couldn't touch it. There was not complete darkness; a small window was lit first blue and then gold with the coming sun. I watched out it as automobiles churned up to the front door, my brother and men in dark suits emerging. I longed for either invisibility or instant death, but the longing was wasted, as they never even came close enough for me to hear their voices.  
At the end of the day my brother left. I could see him crying.

When they were gone I let out my first real breath of the day. The light was fading to blue again and I did not want to read Faust anymore. He was just a book character. He'd never know how terrified I felt. My nerves were hard in my stomach and I wasn't hungry.  
With nothing else to do I resumed my pushing furniture in front of the door. I started with an oak desk, to add to the wardrobe and the dresser, but as I lifted the end several things rattled inside. I jumped, set it back down, and went to open the drawer.  
Paints. Bottles and bottles of colors. Brushes lay like fallen twigs. I picked up a jar. It was a bright and bloody red. Another was blush pink, a newly opened rose. Another was as blue as the light that filtered through the window, and another was a cloud-borrowed cream. Yellows shown and purples swam. They were all waiting there, still damp, still usable. Something stirred in my chest, some long-dead creature.  
I took a brush and several shades, waking them up, listening to them murmur and greet each other. First I dabbed, then splashed them, onto the walls. I painted why love didn't exist, how it was an animistic instinct and not a real-life fairy-tale as some people believe. I painted about work, and how it seems to matter, and how little slips of green are worthless, really, unless used as fire fuel. I painted books and stories and the lies they told. The colors sprang to life and danced. All night long I decorated the walls.  
The rain woke me; I had fallen asleep with the brush still in my hand. I was not hungry and added to my work. I spread out down the wall, over a corner, onto the new wall. Mid-day I'd used up all of the lavender. I opened the window just a little, to let the water in, until it chased out the paint and filled the jar. I took tiny sips throughout the day, as small as I could manage.  
The week went on. I painted my supposed madness. I painted how I thought the doctor ought to look, and the drunken useless doorman. I painted my lies and myself and how I wanted to be left alone. The pink ran out. I filled that jar with water, too. The rain stopped. Time went on and so did the massive painting. It turned another corner. It spilled over onto the floor, onto the remaining furniture. Surfaces decked themselves with life. The brown ran out and so did the black. The reds and pinks were gone next, then the yellow, then the orange. I painted in purples and blues until there was nothing left but unusable clumps. I used green. 

The green bottle was halfway gone when I gasped for water; it had not rained for days, the little I had stored up gone. I begged the jars for just one more drop, but nothing fell to my parched tongue. I breathed heavily. I would have to suffer through the night, until the morning dew would condense on the windowpane.  
I did not need to dream; everything inside of me was already written all over the room. I smiled. I used the pages of Faust to blot up any stray lines. In the morning, I felt the sandpaper sun in my mouth, but there were droplets clinging to the windowpane, just as I'd hoped. I opened the window to get them, catching them in my hands.  
Clink.  
I looked up and my breath left me. The gate had been opened, an automobile filtering next to the fountain. I tried to pull myself back inside, but my arm knocked horribly against the windowpane, and a rattle of glass floated down to where my brother was stepping out of the car. He looked up as I ducked back inside. Even from up there, through the glass, I could see his eyes go round and huge, his mouth opening wordlessly, and his feet take off into a sprint, barreling into the house.  
Oh, no. I spun in a wild arc, looking for a hiding place, darting around the room like an injured bird. A careless footstep crushed the spine of Faust. I darted to the window again...I could force myself out...but the paintings danced and sang, everywhere I looked. No, I could not leave my paintings. My heartbeat vibrated all throughout me. There was nothing to do but be caught.  
My brother's fists met the door like gunshots. "Open up! Open this door! I can't believe you came here!"  
I was silent, with the tiny hope that maybe he'd think he imagined it, but I was thinking of how I'd seen the whites of his eyes, connecting with mine for just a fraction of a moment while I was up in the attic and he was down in the garden. I was doomed.  
The furniture shook against his efforts and I cursed myself. Why hadn't I made a better reinforcement, like I'd intended? My head turned, again, for the window. I could fit. I edged towards it, but my paintings saw and sobbed. I stopped.  
SMASH!  
"Damn you," each corner of my brother's face was red, his sides heaving. "I can't believe you did this."  
I was stock-still, my nerves destroyed as much as the barricade.  
"You lied right to my face." Even through his fury I could see that, somehow, I'd cut him. I'd never noticed before. Why did he care so much? I would paint my confusion next-but no, I wouldn't, because I was about to be dragged away and locked up in a hospital. I defrosted enough to start shaking.  
"You..." his eyes were damp. They lifted to take in the walls, and his expression stalled. All of my images waved at him, circling around our heads, peering up from beneath our feet. His hand reached out, to hit me, I thought, but instead his fingers curled over the wall, touching the colors. For a long, trembling moment his gaze lingered, casting over everything. "You made these?"  
"Someone left paint up here," I mumbled.  
He came closer to me and I held out my hands, but he was not attacking. "Why didn't you tell me you're a painter?"  
"I wasn't one until a week ago."  
"So these past days, while I’ve been combing the entire town looking for you, not getting a wink of sleep-" his voice rose until I shrugged my neck down into my shoulders, "You've been hiding up here and painting! I thought you were dead!"  
"I wish I were."  
"Is this why you never left your apartment-" but he stopped himself, starting to prowl around, a caged beast. "No, you said you didn't start until right after you went missing. I can't believe this. You're absolutely, raving mad, but possibly I'm even worse than that, for trusting in you."  
"You can't take me away," I stumbled backwards, away from him. I could break the window, use the shards of glass. "I'll kill you. I am not going to any doctor. I'll..." I could strangle him. I was almost out of paint. I could use his blood! I would make more images all in red!  
But my brother said, "No."  
"Wha..."  
"You're insane. You really ought to be locked up. I'm right about that, and I was right before...that you don't know what you need until you go out and discover it...you should see that, now."  
"What are you talking about?"  
"I can't send you to be locked up."  
I collapsed with relief. How was this possible? Some will written by our late father, that we would have to treat each other well? Had the Doctor forbidden it? I'd gotten some loophole, but what? The paintings laughed with joy. Had I really gotten out of this? "But why?"  
"Because then you won't paint anymore."


End file.
